


Pedestrian at Best

by lostballoons



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Domestic, Drabble Collection, F/F, cute shit and sometimes sad shit, sometimes, very lowkey fantasy though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostballoons/pseuds/lostballoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>take one: flower-faced they collide on the side of a windy sunday street<br/>take two: the walls fell down and so did she</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flower Girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/gifts).



Baby blond bouncing down the street, clogs clacking across the pavement like crickety-crackity street cars, bow-tied bouquet clutched tight in her too-small hands. Her skirt river flows around her ankles. Roses bob across her eyes. She’s a dollar store romance cover, a windswept world wonder walking headfirst into the Sunday hurricane. 

Jogger on a roll, jogger on the prowl, counting heartbeats and inches-feet-miles till she beats last week’s record, a Gamestop impressive one point five miles. Headphones cranked to the max, her shoes slap against the pavement. Sweat drips down her forehead. She’s in the zone, that fitness star, starring and checking off goals from her iPhone to-do list. 

Boom. Smack. Crash.

Roses scatter across the concrete. A shattered phone screen. 

Big blue eyes meet narrowed browns, a slipping frown.

“Sorry I broke your phone.”

“Sorry I broke your face.

Baby blond pats her cheeks, rouged red by the wind and bouquet. Cracked lip, bruised hip. She smiles anyway. Blood dribbles down her chin. “Only a little bit,” she says.

Red-faced and winded, jogger dabs at the blood with her thumb. 

Blushing, they each sputter:

“Sorry I crashed into you.”

Pause.

“I--Shit.”

“Whoops.”

Blonde bends over, begins gathering pansies and daffodils and snapdragons and red, red roses. Traffic patters past. Swallowing hard, jogger leans into help.

“I’m Krista,” says blond, hair wind-whipping around her face.

Shakily, jogger holds out her hand, but the wind’s breathing hard on her back and she loses her balance, wide-eyed tumbles forward into the petals and the pavement. Slack-jawed Krista stands above her.

Blinking dizzy, the jogger extends her hand once again. She grins. 

“Just call me Ymir.”


	2. Secondhand

Ymir found Krista second or third or fourth hand, curled up behind the bargain bins. She slept there a lot, the cashier lady told Ymir, unscrewing her chapstick. The lights were flickering. Ymir crossed her arms over her chest, quivered in the cold. She forgot her jacket on the nightstand again.

She tapped on Krista’s shoulder, half-expecting her to jolt awake, as if just by touching her she’d killed her in a dream. But she only shifted slightly to the left, curled her wicker-thin fingers beneath her chin. She’s yours now, the cashier lady said.

Where’d you find her? asked Ymir.

The cashier shrugged. You won’t be the first to take her home, she said, smearing balm over her whisper-lips. She shows up here once in a while. They say she’s alright when she talks, if she talks.

I’ve been looking all over for her, said Ymir, chewing her stub nails.

You gonna take her home?

Well I love her, so.

So it goes.

Yeah, well.

Dreaming Krista wrinkled her nose, shivered. Too thin shirt, too thin fingers. 

Titanic girl--her ship sank when there were no more walls to fight for.

Ymir squatted beside her. With rough hands, she brushed the hair from her sallow cheeks. She spotted a cut on her chin, a real bad nick. Maybe she was off running again, Ymir thought and she swallowed hard. Slipped and fell on all that haunted ground, yeah, didn’t know where to step without slick wires stringing her up.

She’ll wake up soon, Ymir said to the cashier, said without looking up from the concrete floor. She rubbed her thumb across that nick, watched breath puff like ash from her cold lips. I don’t know why she didn’t come home again, she said, shoulders trembling as snow shushed past the window. I got a real warm place for her, right above the soup kitchen, got her a key even. I stole her a blanket off a sleeping guy, but she’s been feeling really bad, I guess, so she stays away. Ymir rubbed her temples. But we’re all feeling pretty bad, so why can’t she just come home?

The cashier leaned against the wall. You’re asking the wrong girl, she shrugged. She reapplied her chapstick. I’ll get her blanket, she said. It looks like she’ll be out for a while.


End file.
